Page 16 of In These Hills

“That’s right. Used to be old Doc Salmon’s house. He practiced from here until he retired and sold it.” Mr. Coburn jumped down from the wagon and removed his hat. He ran a hand through his still-damp, wavy, collar-length hair, hardly looking worse for wear.

Meanwhile, she could well imagine her own haggard appearance.

Earlier on when he’d stared her down, maintaining his gaze had all but drained her pride, yet shame still poured through her as she climbed down, legs wobbly, stomach aching with hunger. “While I appreciate the ride, Mr. Coburn, I . . . don’t possess the means for a boarding house.”

“Well, that’s not a problem. Because Miss Mary’s full up right now. Last I knew, anyway.”

Gripping a spoke of the wagon wheel for support, she stared, not understanding.

“This is the only inn in town, Mrs. Dunham. But Miss Mary’s not an altogether unfeeling woman. Most days, anyway. So I’m betting she’ll work out something with you. Least for a night or two.”

Whether in his tone or appraising glance, she caught the reprisal of his earlier stated opinion, This is no place for a woman like you. As though she had a choice in whether to be here.

Dodge Coburn wasn’t as unlearned a man as she’d initially pegged him to be, despite his vernacular. Whether that would ultimately be a good thing or bad, it had certainly played in her favor earlier that day. It made her skin crawl remembering the way those two men had looked at her like she was a slab of meat on a plate, their vulgar intent unmistakable.

Like it or not, she owed Dodge Coburn a debt, and for far more than just passage.

He strode past the white picket fence with no gate and down the wide brick walkway, not bothering to knock on the double front doors before entering.

She followed at a slower pace, the simple but stately white, two-story clapboard building demanding admiration in a subtle, humble sort of way. Square white columns rose to support an upper balcony, and black rocking chairs flanked the entrance. Even in the cold and damp, the house issued a warm welcome.

Josephine could well imagine Miss Mary, its proprietress—a dour, persnickety old spinster resolute on condemning everything and everyone. Especially those daring to challenge the status quo. She knew those women only too well. After confirming her suffragist sash was tucked securely in her coat pocket, she followed Mr. Coburn inside, smoothing a hand over her damp skirt and arranging her mess of hair as best she could without benefit of brush or comb.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, aromas so delicious, so promising, caused her stomach to spasm in anticipation, and emotion sprang to her eyes, as did hunger pangs for home and family long gone. And for Sarah—and their tiny, shared boarding house room.

“It’s late, so supper’s probably long over.” Mr. Coburn glanced back. “But I’m sure one of Miss Mary’s cooks will be able to rustle up something for you.”

Willing to eat almost anything, she whispered a throaty, “Thank you,” then quickly looked away, uncomfortable beneath her vulnerability.

To her left, an open door revealed a dimly lit but nicely appointed den, one wall filled with bookshelves. To her right stood two closed doors she assumed to be bedrooms for boarders who, hopefully, had already retired for the night.

A staircase leading to the shadowed second-floor landing drew her gaze, and the steepness of the stairs reminded her of her childhood home. She could still recall every nook and cranny of that house. After her parents died, the proceeds from the sale had barely covered their outstanding debt, leaving next to nothing. They’d spent nearly all they had championing freedom and rights for the formerly enslaved. A tempered bitterness rose inside her. If only her parents had considered the rights of women—of their own daughter—to be equally as worthy, then perhaps her current circumstances would be different. How could two people so devoted to equal rights not have seen that she needed a champion too?

“Mrs. Dunham?”

Pulled back by the gentle whisper, she swallowed against the knot in her throat and joined Mr. Coburn at the far end of the shadowy hall. But seeing the odd look he cast back in her direction, then hearing the din of conversation, she slowed her steps. Too late, she spotted a half dozen men and three women still gathered around a dining room table, and it took everything in her not to bolt.

At that same moment, an older woman clearing the table looked in their direction. “Well, look what the cat done dragged in.”

Josephine took a swift step back, thinking the comment directed at her. But the woman’s grin, clearly intended for Mr. Coburn, corrected her misassumption. Meanwhile, conversation around the table continued unabated.

Mr. Coburn removed his hat and gestured to one of the serving dishes she carried. “Don’t tell me you’re out of those candied apples I love.”

“If you’re late to this table, son, then you get what you deserve. Come here and give us a hug.”

Mr. Coburn obliged and, with a forefinger, sneaked a swipe in one of the bowls and licked off the remnants. She swatted his arm, her laughter playful—until her gaze moved past him.

“And just who might you be, young miss?” she asked, her humor fading, as did the table conversation.

Heat rose to Josephine’s face, all eyes on her.

Mr. Coburn looked back. “Oh, my apologies. This is Mrs. Josephine Dunham of . . . Tullahoma, most recently. Charlie Poyner’s uncle, Slim, asked me to give her a ride. I told her I thought y’all might be able to help her for a night or two.”

The woman raised a brow.

He motioned for Josephine to join them.

She didn’t move.